Reincarnated As A Wonderkid

A sea of red flooded the streets of Liverpool, a joyous, singing, celebrating tide.

The Premier League trophy, decorated with red and white ribbons, was being paraded on an open-top bus.

For the first time in years, the title belonged to Anfield.

Hundreds of miles away, in a quiet, modern office overlooking the club's training ground, Liverpool's new manager, Arne Slot, watched the celebration on a large screen, a look of deep, profound satisfaction on his face.

The first part of the plan was complete.

But he was a man who was always looking ahead, always thinking about the next step, the next evolution.

"Incredible, isn't it?" his assistant, Pep Lijnders, said, standing beside him with a cup of tea in his hand.

"The energy of this club, this city... it's like nothing else."

"It is," Slot agreed, his eyes still fixed on the screen.

"But this is just the beginning. The Premier League is a statement. The Champions League... that is a legacy." He turned away from the celebration and looked at a large tactical board on the wall. It was covered in magnets with player names on them. In the center of the attacking line, there was one magnet that was different from the others. It was blue and black.

"We were magnificent this season," Slot continued, his voice filled with a quiet, burning intensity. "Mo Salah is still a world-beater, a living legend. Alexander Isak has been a revelation, a perfect number nine with power and grace. But we are missing one piece. The final, crucial piece of the puzzle."

He tapped the blue and black magnet, on which was written a single name: LEON.

"Him," Slot said, a visionary gleam in his eyes.

"He is the one. I watched the Coppa Italia final. I watched the Juventus match. He sees the game in a way that no one else does. He has the brain of a 30-year-old veteran in the body of a 17-year-old athlete."

Lijnders nodded. "His tactical intelligence is off the charts. The way he broke down Torino's defense..."

"Exactly!" Slot exclaimed, his passion growing.

"Imagine it, Pep. Imagine next season. Salah on the right, a blur of lightning and goals. Isak in the middle, a battering ram, a clinical finisher. And Leon floating behind them, pulling the strings, playing the impossible passes, conducting the entire orchestra."

He spread his arms wide, a triumphant smile on his face. "He is the brain, Mo is the lightning, and Isak is the hammer. A perfect storm. They would be... undefendable. Utterly, completely undefendable. We wouldn't just win the Champions League; we would conquer it."

He looked at Lijnders, his expression deadly serious.

"The scout made contact. The seeds have been planted. Now, we just have to make sure he knows that Anfield is the best place in the world for a player like him to grow. It is the number one priority of the summer. Whatever it takes. We must get him."

Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away in Catalonia, another manager was staring at a tactical board in his own office.

But the atmosphere here was not one of triumphant ambition.

It was one of quiet, agonizing stress.

The Barcelona coach, Hansi Flick, looked out the window at the pristine training pitches of the Ciutat Esportiva Joan Gamper.

His team had fought bravely, reaching the Champions League final, but they had been narrowly defeated by Liverpool's relentless machine.

They had talent. They had heart. But they were a team with deep, structural problems.

Problems that could not be solved by one player alone.

The door to his office opened, and the club's sporting director, Deco, walked in, a grim expression on his face.

"The board has reviewed the financials," he said, his voice low.

"It is as we feared. To comply with the league's spending caps and to fund the two midfielders and the left-back we desperately need... we have to make a major sale."

Flick didn't answer. He just stared at the name on the magnet at the very top of his board, the one that shone brighter than all the others.

LAMINE YAMAL

"It feels like a crime, doesn't it?" Deco said, slumping into a chair.

"To even consider it. He is the best young player in the world. Maybe the best player in the world, period. He is the soul of this team, the hope of the fans."

"He is," Flick agreed, his voice a hoarse whisper. He thought of the boy's impossible dribbles, his courage, the way the entire stadium seemed to hold its breath every time he touched the ball. "He is a generational talent. A gift."

"But," Deco continued, the hard edge of pragmatism in his voice, "the transfer fee he would command... it would be astronomical. Record-breaking. With that money, Hansi, we could solve all our problems at once. We could buy a world-class holding midfielder. We could buy a creative number eight. We could buy a top-tier left-back. We could build a complete, balanced team. A team that could truly compete on all fronts, not just rely on the magic of one boy."

The dilemma was a cruel, impossible one. It was a choice between a spectacular present and a stable, prosperous future. It felt like selling the soul of the club to save its body.

"Who would even pay such a fee?" Flick asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Paris Saint-Germain," Deco said simply.

"They are looking for their next global superstar after Mbappé. They see Lamine as that player. They are... very motivated."

Flick closed his eyes, a wave of weariness washing over him. He imagined his team without Lamine Yamal. It felt... empty.

But he also imagined a team with a solid, world-class midfield, a team that didn't have to rely on moments of individual genius to win matches.

"The fans will crucify us," Flick said.

"They will," Deco agreed. "At first. But if we use the money wisely, and we win the league next year... they will understand. It is a gamble of the highest order."

Flick stood in silence for a long time, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. The future of FC Barcelona, one of the biggest clubs in the world, rested on this single, heartbreaking choice.

Back in Milan, Leon was completely, blissfully unaware of the grand, world-altering plans being made in the quiet offices of Europe's footballing giants.

He wasn't thinking about transfer fees or tactical puzzles. He was on the training pitch, an hour before the main session was due to start, with a bag of balls and a single, obsessive focus.

He placed a ball 30 yards from goal. He was trying to master the 'Knuckleball Free-Kick' skill his system had analyzed from Trent Alexander-Arnold's moment of genius. He took his run-up, struck the ball with that strange, flat technique, and watched as it flew, with absolutely no spin, straight into the training ground's parking lot, nearly hitting the club nutritionist's car.

Julián Álvarez, who had just arrived, whistled from the sideline.

"Nice shot! I think you almost hit a bird. Are you trying to invent a new sport? Sky-football?"

Leon just laughed, grabbing another ball.

He was focused on adding one more small weapon to his own personal arsenal.

He had no idea he was already the primary target in theirs.